


Amor Fati

by Allie_J



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Gladiators, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-15 20:22:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3460748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allie_J/pseuds/Allie_J
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Servius (Steve) is the reluctant heir to his father's gladiatorial ludus.  He prefers to keep his hands clean when it comes to the fate of the men in his training school, leaving business to the colder, more powerful men surrounding him - at least until his choice of a new slave and fighter, a captured soldier from the North, proves especially ... fruitful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Electio

**Author's Note:**

> I was torn when it comes to names, because renaming everyone is confusing, but keeping them would be totally out of place for Ancient Rome. An attempt at authenticity won out, so please ... bear with me on that.
> 
> Servius = Steve (the name meaning is "to preserve").
> 
> Antonius = Ancient Roman form of Anthony. No cookies for figuring this one out.

“Is this really necessary?” he hissed under his breath, turning his head only slightly toward the other man, so it wasn't obvious to the others that he was questioning him. Antonius, cavalier as always, clapped him on the shoulder with a firm, unthinking nod. He ignored the reflex to pull away.

“Of course,” he answered, a smile playing across his face without brightening it. “Servius, one day I won’t be here to help you with these decisions. You’ll need the experience to make them confidently on your own.”

It was hard to imagine a future without Antonius’ influence, but he said nothing.

“I know nothing of what will make a proper gladiator,” he continued lowly. “Let the Doctore decide.”

“The Doctore has no authority to decide,” Antonius replied, a warning clip in his voice. It made him turn away, forced him to stare at the line of men in front of him if only to avoid the other man's condescending stare.

He would pick one, he decided. One, and it didn’t really matter which – whatever man he selected, they would be glad to take this gamble of fate over a slow death in the mines. He would choose and then go back to his art, his distractions.

But he was honest in admitting that he knew nothing about what to look for in a new gladiator, what qualities to ferret out. Well, not nothing – he wasn’t stupid – but little.

They were all well-muscled and strong. If they had not appeared strong, they would not have been assembled here, lined up in the courtyard for inspection. As such they all appeared vaguely the same to him. Still, he made a show of it, walking down the row of men purposefully and with scrutiny, as if he knew what he was looking for.

Most adverted their eyes from his gaze, although he had to look up at them, having never reached even an average height. All of them were still, but when he reached the second to last slave, something made him pause.

This man wasn't just avoiding his gaze. He was staring straight forward, his eyes open but unseeing. His jaw was tense, his face without emotion. He had seen statues that invoked greater affect.

“This one,” he said suddenly, surprising himself with an interest that he had hoped would not come. If he made the decision without thinking, without investment, it was easier to believe later that he had played little role in the fate of these men. “His name?”

The trader hovering at his side looked uncomfortable.

“None,” he said, clearly trying to stamp the hesitation out of his voice. When he eyed him firmly, the man went on. “He refuses to speak.”

Servius looked at him directly, but still the man did not move, did not acknowledge his presence or the conversation going on around him, about him.

“Every man has a name,” he insisted, and his voice must’ve sounded too self-righteously innocent, because in a moment Antonius was at his elbow, instantly steering the proceedings.

“No matter,” his mentor said, his voice all confidence and honey. “A gladiator often earns a new name for himself in the arena. And there is the benefit of his not talking back.”

He decided not to respond to this, letting the words fall with the heavy, cold logic with which they were intended. Still, he was intrigued by this man, this slave. There was something strong about him beyond his body.

“He would die a dignified death,” he murmured, and as soon as he said the words, he regretted them. He wanted no connection to a man’s death, despite this, his lot in life, his inheritance. But the words seemed to please Antonius, perhaps to the point of surprising the other man.

“Yes,” he said, his deep red toga moving in tight ripples as he circled the statue-like slave. “Yes – I would agree. A very keen observation.”

He tried to keep the disgust from his face. From time to time, Antonius would publicly throw him a bone, praise him in an obvious attempt to shine light on his own success in guiding him toward the running of the ludus. Privately, he had little patience for what he considered Servius’ overindulgent, placeless ideals.

He wondered if the slave would be grateful to be chosen. As it was, he continued to give away nothing of himself. It began to dawn on him that other features beyond his stoicism reminded him of a fine statue. His jaw was square, and his lips, while too wide, were finely molded in graceful lines. His chest was too wide for the proportions of an ideal youth, but the muscles were deep and defined, as if carved from marble rather than flesh.

He narrowed his eyes at him, frowning. Did he even breathe?

“Negotiate a price,” he said, and the authority in his voice was natural, coming from that rare place inside himself that seemed to fit so little with the man he hoped to be. A man who refused to hold the fate of others in his hands.

Antonius nodded, and he was relieved. The ludus had acquired a new man, and his duties were suspended for the moment. He could return, briefly, to painting.


	2. Judico

He moved between subjects. It didn’t seem to matter what he painted, so much as the truth of what was there, what he saw. It was the release that mattered.

His latest work was a banquet scene, now half-finished. Already most of the guests had been filled in, reclining on their couches, including one especially drunk, older man with a thin, dark beard and red toga, whose wine had spilled into the lap of the shocked lady next to him. Now, he focused on an anonymous flute-girl in the background, her eyes half-averted, but a small smile twitching at the corner of her mouth.

He wished life could mimic art – that he could always be invisible, silently looking in on such events without needing to be a part of the picture. As it was, he hated parties like these, because – at least before Antonius had a few generous cups of wine – they mainly consisted of his being dragged from man to man, expected to sell the services of his gladiators. To paint a vivid mental picture of how gloriously they could die, killing each other without fear or thought.

He dabbed his brush into earthy red, feeling slightly sickened at the thought. Antonius was good at that – at selling, convincing. He, on the other hand, sold men with all the finesse of those in the market selling butchered pigs, because he was incapable of highlighting their higher virtues to the buyer. Courage, honor, loyalty – it made them too human, and he hated to speak of it. At best, he could relate their technical skills, their talent with a sword.

There was a soft clearing of the throat behind him, and he started, turning around.

“Doctore,” he said, and the slave girl who had assured him in bowed, retreating immediately. The Doctore stood tall, surveying the room as if inspecting it, his hands clasped behind his back. Switch their clothing, wipe the dust from his brow, and it would’ve been difficult to tell who owned who.

“Antonius instructed me to keep you updated on the progress of your most recent acquisition,” he said, his voice even and low, stern even here, with him.

Of course he did, Servius thought. He would want him close to this. If the new gladiator failed, Antonius could blame his death or sale on his inexperience. If, on the other hand, the new slave managed to do well, he could point instead to his own careful guidance – how he, Antonius, had been involved every step of the way, ensuring his protege's success.

“Fine,” he said. He waited for a moment, his hand still poised to paint, but the Doctore offered nothing. “Report, then, on his progress.”

“It may be best that you bear witness yourself,” the other man replied smoothly.

He set down his brush. There had always been tension here – Doctore was far from a submissive man, and his words, though careful, often bordered on the edge of argument.

There was no doubt, however, that he was well suited to his position. A veteran of the arena, a spear had left his eye mangled and grey, receded in a bed of scars, and rendered the man himself unable to continue competing. Thankfully, his experience had made him a strong candidate for Doctore, head trainer of the gladiators. And taking these men under his command seemed to sate his need for authority.

Even Antonius seemed to have a kind of begrudging respect for Doctore. Despite the clear difference in rank, both were leaders; both had a stake in the success of the ludus.

“Very well,” Servius said, standing. “Lead me.”

They descended to the first floor of the ludus, the domain of the gladiators. While he enjoyed watching their sparring in the central courtyard from his balcony – it had been one of his favorite pastimes since boyhood, really – to be among them, to pass by the doors where they slept and the rows of tables where they ate, brought him too close to their reality.

Evidently, Doctore had planned a display. As soon as they set foot on the hot sand of the courtyard, he nodded to a senior gladiator, who immediately retreated. 

The silence between them was awkward as they waited, and Servius found himself mirroring the older man’s pose, clasping his hands behind his back in a posture of authority. He couldn't carry it off, however, as well as one might've hoped. Although he tried not to be conscious of it, he could see the men across the courtyard pause in their conversation and frown quietly at him in disgust.

He couldn't blame them. He was short, slight, sickly. Hardly the man you would expect to hold the power of life and death over so many, especially when just one of them could snap his neck on a whim. If given half a chance.

The veteran gladiator returned, bringing with him the new slave. His dark hair, pulled back neatly the day before, when he had stood in line on the same sand, was now falling loose and wild around his face. His blank expression, on the other hand, had not changed. He looked neither at the gladiator leading him, nor Doctore, nor him, nor the other men who watched beyond the columns. He simply stared forward.

A dull wooden sword was thrust into his hand, and he held it still at his thigh, as if disinterested. The man who led him out now took up position across from him for a match.

“Watch carefully,” Doctore instructed ominously, his eyes on the novice. He signaled for the fight to begin.

The veteran began to half-circle him, slow and deliberate, but the new slave did not move. He appeared to watch only with his eyes, his feet firmly planted, his back straight. This went on for a moment – the veteran circled, faked lunges, raised his sword in threat – all for nothing. The dark-haired novice did not respond, not even to flinch.

At last his opponent grew tired of this, surging forward with his sword raised, intending now to strike with real intention. Servius cringed as it fell, waiting for the blow, for the new slave to crumple roughly to his knees.

It didn’t come. At the last possible moment, the novice moved – ducked – grabbed the wrist holding the sword, twisted, pulled. There was a faint cracking sound that he could hear even a clear distance away from the fight. The older gladiator struggled nobly, keeping on his feet, but it was only a few seconds before his hand began to twitch and the weighty wooden sword dropped to the sand.

The novice released his wrist, but only to allow the free hand to snap up to the gladiator’s throat.

He thrashed at first, struggling to speak. He pulled and clawed at the arm holding him, but his opponent was immovable. Seconds ticked by, and his attempt at words collapsed into a weak gurgling, his knees buckling inward. It was clear that the novice had no intention of letting go, and at his point, other gladiators rushed in, putting their bodies between the two men.

At last, the new slave let go. He fell back into the same deadly calm he had maintained before the fight began, staring out into the courtyard at nothing as his opponent gagged on his knees before him, struggling to catch his breath.

“I think he may do very well,” Doctore said. It startled him; he realized that his mouth was hanging slack, and he swallowed, feeling almost as if he, too, needed to get a handle on his breathing.

“I’ve never seen a fighting style like that,” he said, the words tumbling out of him dumbly. He wasn’t sure what to say.

“Walk with me, around the perimeter of the courtyard,” Doctore continued. “If you would.”

Servius nodded, watching out of the corner of his eye as the wooden sword was taken back from the novice. He gave it up lifelessly, as if he had only been asked to hold it for a moment. The commotion around the fight was settling; both men were being led indoors, albeit separately.

“He was a captured soldier,” Doctore stated, strolling next to him at a pace that felt surreal in its leisure, after what they had just witnessed. In his mind, he could still hear the gladiator gurgling like a freshwater spring. “There is a tattoo on his arm.”

“To whom did he belong?” he questioned. He was trying to take the Doctore’s lead – trying to be calm and logical, rather than shaken by what he had just witnessed.

“I don’t recognize the mark,” the other man replied.

“This is no soldier’s training,” Servius stated – still breathless and trying to pull together words that sounded intelligent. 

“No,” the Doctore said. Maddeningly unhelpful, as he often was.

“But this is good,” he ventured. “He can be further trained. And he can win. He can rise, no doubt, into the upper ranks.”

He felt a sense of optimism rise up in his chest, almost like pride, and as soon as he sensed it, he tried to crush it. For Antonius, the success of a gladiator would mean money, status, political sway. For the Doctore, his teacher, honor and favor – and a better chance at freedom. For him, it should mean nothing.

He had no desire to profit from betting this man’s life.

“There is more to a gladiator’s longevity in the arena than his proficiency at killing,” Doctore stated, choosing the words with care. “You know this.”

He did know. The knowledge curled inside his stomach like a burning scrap of parchment, lining it with ash. He hated to think of the arena, how it functioned, how it was a more complicated game than it appeared. But it was impossible not to pick up on the rules when you had a stake in every game.

“No man can win every fight,” Doctore went on. “Eventually there will be a complication, even if he remains the more skilled fighter. A mistake, the first out of a thousand opportunities. An injury that can never fully heal.”

He turned pointedly toward him, so that the scarred web of his eye socket was clearly visible in the sun. The sight no longer made him shiver, as it had at first, but the point was made. 

“Or, if not that,” he finished, slowing his pace. “Old age finds us all.”

“If you’re trying to caution me about this gladiator and his future, you may as well say it outright, whatever you’re thinking,” Servius said. 

The Doctore almost smiled. He knew that discussing the politics of the ludus always pushed him into territory he’d rather not explore.

“When he loses,” he said, “And he will, one day, even combining the best, most dedicated training with natural skill –“

“No need to sell yourself, Doctore,” Servius said, sighing. “Your position is secure.”

“- he will lose. And at that moment, he will have to appeal to the will of the crowd.”

It clicked into place, then – the point the Doctore was trying to make. The best gladiators had more than deadly skill – they had charisma. Those with the longest careers didn’t necessarily carry the longest record of successes. At some point, they lost, but the crowd allowed them to live to fight for them another day.

In a strange, terrible way, they were loved.

“You’re saying the public will never take pity on him,” he said. “Have mercy on him.”

“I’m saying I doubt he could be taught to elicit such a thing from the crowd.”

Servius sighed under his breath. He was outside of his depth here, planning how long the new slave could survive the arena before he’d even had his first match. Still, it spoke to Doctore’s foresight that he was already considering these future complications. Perhaps he cared about more than how the novice’s success could bolster his own position here.

“One thing at a time,” he said, letting it all pass for the moment. “Has he given up his name yet?”

“He still refuses to speak, Dominus.”

“And you’re certain he understands the language?”

“It’s clear that he does,” the Doctore confirmed. “And his tongue is intact. I’ve checked.”

He was hoping he could avoid this – giving another man, a man he knew nothing about, a name, the way you might name a dog.

“Well, he must have something to answer to, I suppose.”

“Antonius suggested the name ‘Brutus’ for your consideration,” Doctore offered, unable to keep the hint of amusement out of his voice. 

Servius swallowed hard, trying to keep his barely tempered dislike for Antonius out of his mind. It took up too much of his time as it was.

“Julius,” he said, before he could even think it through.

“Julius?” the other man repeated. He couldn't blame him for being surprised. The name was common, yes, but it also carried a sense of decency, normality. Any man could carry the name, and it spoke nothing of lowliness and slavery.

“Yes,” he confirmed, letting the name’s finality sink in. “Julius.”

“He is yours, Dominus,” Doctore responded. Then he walked off on his own accord, not waiting to be dismissed. He rarely did, except perhaps in the presence of high-ranking strangers.

Servius made his way back to the second floor of the ludus – his private home – immediately. He hated this part of himself – the part that wanted to run, tail between his legs, away from duty – almost as much as his actual role in it.

Antonius wouldn’t allow him to linger innocently on the sidelines with this new man, that much was obvious. He wouldn’t be able to bury himself in his art enough to keep from knowing whether he lived or died when his day in the arena came.

But as he settled back in front of his painting, he had a feeling that it would be impossible, anyway – impossible to keep his hands out of this man’s life.

He was terrifying, yes. A killer. But he wanted him to live long enough to be convinced to give up his real name. 

At least long enough for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you :) I've already gotten a few comments and it feels wonderful that people like this concept.


	3. Femina

He sighed, breathing the hot steam in deeply. The heat had already sunk into his muscles, making his body feel languid, weightless. He felt drunk without liquor dulling his thoughts, and minutes went on, blissful minutes where he meditated on composition and early morning light.

It couldn’t go on, of course. Eventually he heard wet footfalls behind him, and the water shifted, rippling against his left shoulder. The loud, barely restrained groans as a body lowered itself into the bath next to him were unmistakable.

Antonius often preferred to conduct his business here, in the public baths. He had his own at home, of course – as did he, at the ludus – but Servius imagined that nothing, for him, could quite supersede the pleasures of an audience.

“Doctore tells me we’re making progress with the new addition,” he said, getting right down to it.

Servius didn’t feel the need to open his eyes, not just yet. The mention of him, their newest gladiator in training, immediately brought to mind an image of him sparing in the yard, the burnt-gold sand clinging to the sweat on his calves and forearms, smeared there after innumerable knocks to the ground. 

He had moved his easel to the balcony, where the lighting was better. It was impossible not to catch a glimpse of Julius fighting, even absorbed in his work.

Besides this, he’d had his own report from Doctore – he had no desire to hear any news from Antonius first. After several days of shouting, cursing, and making threats encouraging him to use the practice weapons given him, and not his bare hands, Doctore had come up with the innovative idea of binding his hands to a wooden sword and shield, thus forcing him to use them in defense. He remained as still as a statue unless a response was vital, but his sparing partners had picked up somewhat on his strange style. These two developments made for a fairer fight, something better resembling what would be expected on the stage of the arena.

Doctore had told him, too, that the sword was no impediment for him. His choice to avoid it was not for lack of skill – he evidently simply preferred a more direct, brutal method.

“He is doing as well as can be expected,” Servius answered dryly, feigning a bit of exasperation. After all, the better their new slave was performing, the sooner he would be moved along to the arena. “Doctore reminds me that it can take months to cultivate a man able to make even a decent showing.”

“What’s impressive is that he turned out to be even worthy of training,” Antonius replied coolly, and this made him finally open his eyes, turning them narrowly on his mentor. He must have seen his dark look, because he laughed, lightly clapping his wet shoulder in jest.

“It’s not that I had no faith in you!” he said, even though Servius knew this to be perfectly true. “It’s just that half the time, Doctore refuses to train the men we throw at him beyond a week. I thought we’d be baiting him out to the lions after two, and now we have such high hopes.”

He curled his hands into fists beneath the water. He hated the lion baiting most of all, where the condemned men stood not even a hope of survival, and where the death was never as clean as the thrust of a sharpened sword through the heart. He hated it almost as much when the chained beasts, half-starved and their ears bitten to tatters by flies, were killed in their turn.

“Oh, come on now,” Antonius continued, and he followed his clap on his shoulder with a playful shove. “You’re a young man. Don’t be so serious.”

Servius struggled to find words – anything relatively polite to placate the older man, turn the conversation away from the arena. Nothing came, however. He could only clench his fists harder.

Antonius, thankfully, did not read into the silence.

“Speaking of being young, and a man,” he began, turning toward him conspiratorially. “How would you care to host a banquet at the ludus? Not a large gathering, of course, nothing to stress over. Just close friends.”

This did nothing to perk up his mood, but he let his breath out evenly, trying to remember how the warm water was supposed to make one feel calm and relaxed.

“Lining up sponsors so soon?” he asked, trying to mask the animosity that threatened to leak into his tone. 

“Sponsors?” the older man questioned. He laughed, as if this suggestion – one based on the sole function of the ludus – was prosperous. “Sponsors, no, no. Women.”

He blinked, letting this sink in for a moment. Apparently, Antonius had no real need for him to respond, because he continued on anyway.

“It’s about time, don’t you think?” he asked, a smile spreading across his face. “You thought I would be there to guide you in taking over the ludus, but I wouldn’t help you find a proper wife?”

“I – “ he stammered, halting as he realized how blindsided he was. He had been so caught up, all this time, in avoiding the operation of the ludus that he’d forgotten what other duties would eventually come calling. “I hadn’t – that is. I’m in no rush to marry. Don’t you think it would be wiser to wait until – until I’ve taken on the running of the ludus entirely on my own?”

It was a brilliant thing to say, he realized the moment the words left his lips. Marriage could wait until he took over the ludus completely, for good – something both he and the other man knew Antonius would never let happen.

“I know,” he said, his wide hand again on his shoulder. Servius hated how he loved to touch him without invitation – it made his skin crawl, these mock gestures of affection. “I was in no hurry to settle down myself. But it’s not the end of the world.”

He tried not to laugh at this statement. Antonius had been married once, and evidently, marriage for him had been no different from singlehood except for the fact that one of his lovers lived in his home. Few wondered the reason behind his hasty divorce.

“Maybe you should be concerned with your own prospects first,” he said, and he couldn’t resist letting the next few words slip out. “You aren’t getting any younger yourself.”

It was a well-timed blow, just playful enough not to be insulting. He returned the shoulder clap, a little harder than necessary, and took great pleasure as the other man grimaced.

“Actually,” Antonius said, struggling to keep the smile on his face. “I already have someone in mind for you. A real prize. I considered her for myself, but – well. I think of you like a son.”

Excellent, he thought. Antonius’ leftovers. 

“I’m sure I can pull together a few casks of wine on short notice,” he said, and his mentor’s smile edged back toward something more genuine.

“Good,” he said, finally beginning to pull himself up and out of the water. “I look forward to it. Don’t worry – you won’t be disappointed.”

He watched him go with a sense of pleasure that he didn’t bother to censor, gradually letting the peace and warmth of the water seep back into his consciousness. He leaned his head back, exhaling as he closed his eyes.

He tried to imagine the woman Antonius planned to throw at him. He came up with a hazy image of a woman too young for even him, her hair blonde, in loose ringlets piled on top of her head – fair skin, delicate features. Definitely a blonde, he decided. Blonde like the sand in the ludus courtyard at noon.

He must have began to drift off here, because the color triggered the memory of men sparing beneath his balcony, silent except for the dull thud that rang out when their weapons came together. Their heavily tanned skin almost blended into the sand, merging with the sun-beached wood of the weapons. Their bodies were a golden blur, except for the dark hair whipping loose around a strong face.


	4. Vidua

Servius leaned slightly over the railing of the balcony, watching. It was difficult to see in the disappearing light, but he could just catch the motion as he moved in and out of the heavy shadows cast by the courtyard’s colonnade. 

Julius was training – alone. The other gladiators, Doctore among them, had retreated into the ludus more than an hour ago, but he remained. It had become a ritual of his for the past few days, training until he could no longer see him from above in the pitch black, and it left Servius with a gnawing sense of concern. Perhaps he meant to kill himself with exhaustion before he had the chance to face his fate in the arena.

He made a mental note to ask Doctore what he knew about Julius’ motives. For now, though, he watched. If he followed his movement carefully enough, he could just see the muscles of his upper arms strain as he lifted the log. He held it perfectly still until he began to almost vibrate with the strain, then lowered it to the ground, never making a sound. Then he picked it up again, and again, and again.

“They were wrong about you.”

He nearly jumped out of his skin, freezing before turning around. The voice made the shock linger – it was rich and dark and feminine, and he knew very few women.

Approaching him was a woman he didn’t know, and she was beautiful. Her hair was thick and red, drawn up in loose curls on the crown of her head – although the style was less ornate, less neat than what fashion dictated. Her lips were thick, like rose petals curling in on themselves, and her eyes were wide, but mesmerizingly intense.

She was a stranger in his private bedroom, uninvited to enter. But as she walked toward him, perfectly calm, any desire he had to question her fell away.

“I’m sorry,” he said, bowing his head to the side. Not looking at her directly seemed to make it easier to think. “I don’t –“

“You don’t know who I am,” she finished. She had reached the railing, crossing her arms over it and leaning forward. It made him feel as if they were the same height. “I hope you don’t mind that I came a little early.”

There was only one woman invited to the banquet, the young widow that his mentor hoped to throw at him. He knew her name, but it felt strange to offer it. It circumvented convention – they hadn’t been introduced.

“That you came early and decided to explore?” he asked, but the small smile she gave him made the accusation in his question melt away before he could say the words. “No. Not at all.”

She relaxed further into the railing, tilting her head closer to him.

“I like to be direct about these things,” she said, lowering her voice, although there was no one out here that could overhear them. “This was the most direct way to meet you. When we meet each other down there, we’ll be on display.”

“You’re suggesting that we can only be honest when we’re alone?” he ventured. He was expecting someone beautiful, but everything else about her, in terms of womanhood, was new.

“Not suggesting,” she said, a smile pulling at her lips again. “You won’t mention that I looked around, will you? I wouldn’t want anyone to think I was too –“

“Bold?” he suggested. The corner of her mouth twitched further upward, suggesting something real before it settled again into a smile that was playful, but controlled.

“Curious,” she said. A brief silence fell between them, and he remembered what she’d first said, before he’d turned around and seen her approach.

“You said they were wrong about me,” he prompted. He watched her carefully for a reaction, but her face was perfectly calm, unfettered.

“You have them all fooled,” she began. “They say you’re soft on your men. Apathetic, naïve.”

Her words stirred his blood a little, and he readied himself to argue, but before he could speak, she leaned more deeply over the railing, narrowing her eyes into the growing darkness.

“But look at that,” she said lowly. The last minutes of daylight were fading, but it was still possible to see Julius, arms straining, muscles tense. “You wake your gladiators at dawn and work until them midnight.”

“I can assure you,” he said immediately, “That isn’t the case. That would cause exhaustion – it would make them sick, vulnerable. Not strong.”

“Ah,” she responded. Her eyes continued to follow Julius’ shadow as it flickered in and out of the dark. “A special punishment for him, then? Is that why you were out here watching – making sure your punishment was being carried out?”

He had taken in several opportunities to be affronted with her – invading his private space, sharing gossip about his character. This was the first thing to make him feel a real flare of anger.

“I was trying to clear my head before the banquet,” he stated, clearly pronouncing each word with a heavy note of finality.

She waited a moment before meeting his gaze, staring pointedly down at Julius before speaking.

“It’s all right,” she said, and her little smile was back. “I like to watch sometimes, too.”

She uncrossed her arms, stretching them a little in the night air.

“I should really go back,” she said, moving incrementally into his bedchamber. “It’s almost time for me to be arriving.”

He nodded. He didn't think he’d ever met a woman before who made him feel this uneasy.

“I look forward to meeting you,” he offered. “Naevia.”

The mention of her name earned a final smirk as she turned her head briefly back to him, her robes brushing against the floor behind her as silently as when she first entered.


	5. Larva

“Don’t be silly,” Antonius said, gesturing widely at the room around him. “In this ludus, you can have anything you desire.”

A generous offer, Servius thought, considering that Antonius didn’t actually own the ludus. These offhand comments tended to irritate him, but it was a challenge to stay focused on his mentor’s overstepping in Naevia’s presence.

She gave him what he guessed was meant to be a shy smile, but it looked a little too wicked to be innocent. It occurred to him that her being presented now as a potential future wife meant that she must’ve rejected Antonius at some point, and this alone was reason enough to like her.

She was also uncommonly intelligent and perceptive. That much was clear.

“Well,” she went on. “If you promise that you won’t laugh.”

And she was beautiful, something she knew how to use to her full advantage. 

“Never,” Antonius swore, laying a hand soundly over his heart.

Still – something about her made Servius feel on edge. It was as if they were playing a game, and she was so many steps ahead that he didn’t even know the rules.

“It’s just,” she said, tilting her head down and to the side, as if embarrassed, “I’ve only ever seen a gladiator from the stands. Would it be a terrible imposition if I could – inspect one up close?”

Antonius turned to him, smiling widely and clearly expecting him to answer. The request seemed strange, especially in the middle of a meal, but he couldn’t find a good reason to cite for refusing her.

“Well, I suppose –“

“Oh, wonderful,” she said, lifting her head only to lean closer to him. “What about the man I saw training as I passed through your gate? So dedicated. He must be a fine example of the breed.”

He hesitated – although it seemed that Doctore was making progress with him, out of all his gladiators, Julius was the last one he would rely on for making any kind of good impression. Still, admitting this would be difficult to explain, and could only reflect poorly on his ludus. Naevia had already heard rumors of his incompetence.

“If you’d like,” he said, politely. He signaled to a slave standing nearby. “Instruct Doctore to bring us Julius.”

The man nodded, disappearing from the room. He watched as Naevia lifted a dainty slice of peacock to her lips.

“I thought I would never meet another Roman without their own body slave,” she commented, smiling. He was a little shaken by her bold statement – every other word out of her mouth, it seemed, was surprising. 

“I’m perfectly capable of attending to my own basic needs,” he said, trying not to color the words with judgment as he looked pointedly at Antonius. His own body slave – the name also beginning with a ‘J,’ though he’d forgotten it – lived in his shadow. It was as if the man could never stand to be alone.

“I value my privacy,” she offered. Her eyes lingered on him longer than was necessary, and it made him shift his weight on the couch.

“All woman have their secrets,” Antonius offered, taking a generous sip of his wine. Naevia turned to him briefly, giving him a tight smile and a nod, before taking her own cup in hand.

They ate in silence for a moment, until Doctore entered. He was silent, but his presence was as imposing as if he’d been announced.

Julius was just behind him. Servius cursed himself – he should’ve ordered that he be bathed before being brought up, because he was fresh from his training in the yard, his long hair slicked back with sweat and sand caking his arms and legs.

He looked around the room, silently passing judgment on the mosaics and furnishings. He made no attempt to acknowledge any of them, not even sparing a glance at the various meats on the table. Servius was no lover of luxury, but even he doubted he could live happily on the gladiators’ vegetarian diet of lentils, grains and ash.

Naevia stood immediately, her cold eyes lighting up. She gave him a pointed smile – perhaps a thank you – before circling the table to stand in front of Julius, letting her eyes wander freely over his bare chest.

“Mars must be seething with envy,” she said, quietly. She began to circle him slowly, appraising him. She lifted a hand, letting it drag gently over his upper arm as she moved behind him.

To see her touch Julius so intimately made his stomach clench, and he watched him carefully, looking for a reaction. But the man made no move to acknowledge Naevia, even to follow her with his eyes. He stared straight forward, seeing nothing.

“What is his name?” she asked, appearing behind his opposite shoulder. Servius broke from Julius’ stoic face to watch her hand, his own beginning to twitch slightly as she lowered it, letting it brush almost imperceptibly over his lower back, just above his belt.

“Julius,” he answered, feeling his breath quicken slightly.

“Julius,” she repeated, frowning. She brought her eyes back to his face, frowning at it, like one would while examining a piece of statuary. 

“I’d change that before sending him to the arena,” she said absently.

“Agreed,” Antonius said, but Servius was too concerned with Naevia and her hands to even look at him.

“Still,” she said. “He is … impressive.”

She turned toward him, giving him a long look before returning to her eyes to Julius’ body. He was breathing steadily in and out, perhaps a little bit too quickly. Servius wondered suddenly if his slave was angry at this treatment. Angry, or -

“You know,” Naevia said, carefully, “I’ve heard stories of gladiators being … borrowed, for the night, by their admirers. Wealthy women … they wear golden masks of Venus so that they won’t be recognized, even by the man they’ve paid for.”

Servius struggled to control his breath, to lean back casually on the couch when all he wanted to do was jump up and grab her wandering hand by the wrist. 

“Would you host such a party at your ludus?” she asked him pointedly, her smile small and sweet.

He felt his hand curl into a fist where it was hidden beneath the table. She was essentially calling his ludus a whorehouse. He turned to look at Antonius, expecting him too to be outraged, but instead he looked as if he were considering a business proposition. 

“No,” he said, and then, realizing how vehement his voice sounded, went on. “My men are dedicated to their cause. They prepare for their day in the arena with complete focus – no distractions.”

“Ah,” she said lightly. Her expression was calm, but her eyes felt like they were searing into him. “Very wise.”

“Doctore, please return Julius to the barracks,” he said, waving dismissively toward him. He’d almost forgotten he was there – he hadn’t looked at him to search out his reaction to these suggestions.

Doctore nodded, and as he turned to leave, Julius followed him wordlessly. Servius watched him go, exiting the room with the same utter lack of emotion he’d displayed upon entering.

“Well,” Antonius said loudly, breaking the tension. “I know I’m ready for dessert.”

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

Later, as he lay alone and tried to sleep, he wondered at his own anger. He always questioned it – it felt like something outside of himself, something taking over, because he strove so much to be level-headed and calm in everything he did. 

He told himself it was insulting to him, and to his men. They faced death, and not only that – they were expected to face it without fear. They were meant to be embodiments of honor and courage, even if they were ultimately endowed with all the rights of baited beasts. They were not prostitutes.

It was clear that Julius had faced death before. It seemed that he had faced it far too many times, and that was what left him so unfeeling. He wished he could unravel him, pull on his story like a string on a rug and see how he was strung together. He wanted to take him apart like a painting, break him down into the most basic colors.

He didn’t know why. Maybe it was the mystery, the fact that it was so obvious that something more was there, but hidden. At least – that was his impression.

He closed his eyes, trying to banish the image of Naevia’s hand trailing over his arm, his hip. He tried, but in the end he saw it over and over, slowly, Julius’ skin being touched. It quickened his breath, made him turn on his side and clench his fist again, even though he was alone.

He told himself he was insulted. Insulted, and when it came to Julius in particular – merely curious.


End file.
